Читать книгу Lost and Found - Gwenna Sebastian - Страница 6

Chapter 2

Lighting up a cigarette, Mark leaned back against the countertop, staring out over the dunes to the steel-gray ocean. The wind was tearing it up, the waves at least eight to ten feet high as the surf crashed on shore. It had been raw outside when he took his pre-dawn run, the bitter cold snatching his breath away. Studying the slate colored skies, Mark figured it would turn to sleet later on.

The coffee was almost ready, so Mark fished the biggest mug out of the cabinet. It was black with a yellow smiley face, which he couldn’t care less about. That it held a fucking lot of coffee in one pour, now that he could get behind. He started to reach for the pot when Josh made his entrance.

Mark stared as the younger man came down the stairs, scrubbing his face before running both hands through his long hair. He yawned, walking across the great room, wearing nothing but a pair of dog tags and white socks, his personality bobbing between his legs with each step he took.

Well, sweet fucking Christ, the guy was a helluva sight. Yesterday, the oversized tie-dyed t-shirt and baggy carpenter’s jeans along with the bulky flannel jacket had done a fine job of hiding most of Josh’s rather spectacular attributes. He was tall and long-limbed, but, Mark couldn’t help but notice how ripped he was. Well-defined arms, flat stomach, not a body builder but what Mark called “working man” shape, a body earned with sweat.

And damn, Mark had to admit, the guy was hung, out there for anyone to see.

Josh tripped over the ottoman, swearing as he regained his balance. Mark narrowed his eyes, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. Josh walked into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee maker. That put him right beside Mark with no regard for personal space.

“Fuck yeah, I love a Starbucks that’s open early.” Josh filled the mug that Mark had set out on the counter before going over to the refrigerator. He disappeared behind the door for a long moment. “Awesome, I was worried there for a minute that all you had in here was beer.” Josh emerged with a small carton of milk, letting the door swing shut behind him. He topped off his mug, leaving the carton on the counter. He sipped gingerly before letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Forget something, did ya’?” Mark tapped the ashes off his cigarette in the sink. He let his gaze travel the length of the naked man standing beside him.

Taking another sip, Josh pushed the mop of hair out of his face. “Nah, I don’t need glasses to get a cup of coffee.” With a sleepy grin, he went back the way he came, presenting Mark with an unobstructed view of a rather fine ass. There appeared to be a tattoo on the left butt cheek, but Mark couldn’t make out what it was and he’d be damned if he’d ask. This time Josh maneuvered around the ottoman without mishap.

“I’ll start the plumbing work on the master bath in a bit.” Josh started up the stairs, mug secure between both hands.

“Hopefully with some fuckin’ clothes on, damn jarhead,” Mark muttered, yanking the cupboard open to find another mug.

“I heard that, dogface!” Josh tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared upstairs.

* * * *

Leaving the master bathroom to Josh, Mark worked in one of the guest bedrooms that needed to be painted and hardwood floors installed. That meant furniture had to be moved out, then carpet and padding ripped up. Outside, as he’d predicted, it had started to sleet. He could hear it ticking against the windows.

He spent the better part of an hour muscling furniture into the guestroom across the hall. Once in a while, he heard music, Josh singing along to it. Sounded like mostly sixties’ stuff, music Mark remembered from a lifetime ago when he’d humped through the jungles of Vietnam. He didn’t dwell on it, but shut the door, blocking the sound as he began ripping out the carpet.

It was nasty, sweaty work. Mark lost track of time as he pulled up the carpeting, then rolled it into sections to haul down to the dumpster under the house. Hardwood floors would’ve been a waste of money while the place was rented out over the last twenty years. Now they would be beautiful as the vacation rental was converted to a retirement dream. Mark opened the door to hear Josh belting it out with the Moody Blues. He shook his head, cigarette in his mouth, then started hauling the carpet downstairs.

On the trips back up, he hauled paint, supplies and boxes of hardwood flooring. He stacked it in the room, slitting the boxes open before deciding to take a breather. He was filthy, sweaty and tired, but he’d have the room painted by the end of the day.

Lighting up a fresh cigarette, Mark wandered down to the master bath to see what Josh was up to.

The place was gutted down to the studs. Mark had already taken the wall out between a closet and the bath, reframing it. He’d chased most of the wiring through but couldn’t do anything else until the plumbing was done.

“If you’re going to San Francisco,” greeted Mark as he walked across the bedroom. He stood in the doorway of the bath. “Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...” Josh had his back to him, sweating some copper fixtures for the sinks on the far wall as he sang along. Crossing his arms over his chest, Mark leaned against the doorframe, watching. Josh wore a faded brown t-shirt with lettering mostly hidden by the baggy coveralls that hung on his lean frame. His long hair was tied out of his face with a pink bandana, of all things. But it certainly looked like he knew what he was doing as he soldered the joints, handling the small blowtorch with ease.

The song changed to Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower. Without warning, Mark flashed back to Vietnam.

Mark leaned against the Huey's shuddering frame, the jungle sliding by in a kaleidoscope of greens as he watched. The wind whipped around him as he glanced over his shoulder. First squad was jammed into the cargo area, everyone on top of each other. They were exhausted, some asleep, heads down, rifles over their laps. The smell of diesel, sweat, and blood washed over him.

The pilot was talking on the radio but Mark couldn't make out the words over the slick's engine and comforting whump, whump, whump of the rotor blades. Ryan dozed behind him, shouldered against Mark's back, his rifle wrapped in his arms.

This was safety, skimming over the jungles. Sarge played tunelessly on his harmonica. Most of the time Mark swore he’d steal that damned thing and hide it. Today, it didn't annoy him. They were on their way back to the firebase after almost two weeks in the bush. He was alive, Ryan was alive. Another day survived in this God forsaken hell.

Mark snapped back to the present, blinking, staring at Josh who had stopped what he was doing. He’d turned off the music along his blowtorch. He now stood, eyes filled with concern behind the safety glasses.

“Christ, man, you okay?”

Fuck, just what he needed to do in front of this guy, flashback to his time in Vietnam. Normally that only happened at night. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had to be the music, it just had to be.

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t go all girly on me, cupcake.”

“You were in Vietnam, weren’t you?” Josh stripped off his safety glasses, setting them and the blowtorch aside.

“What makes you say that?”

Josh shrugged. “You’re not old enough for Korea. You don’t have ‘lifer’ written all over you, so you couldn’t have been in Desert Storm. That pretty much leaves ’Nam.”

“Aren’t we the rocket scientist here?” Mark didn’t like talking about this, but he didn’t walk away either. The guy was a former Marine, even if he’d never been in a war.

“You were a boonie rat, I bet. How many tours?”

“Two. That’s all I’m gonna say about it.”

“Sweet Christ, man.” Josh shook his head. “If the music’s gonna be a problem, I’ll knock it off.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you listen to, jarhead, as long as you get the damn pipe run in here.”

* * * *

Josh came down wearing another loose t-shirt and sweatpants in a wild flower print. His hair was still wet from the shower he’d taken after spending all day busting his ass in the master bath. He’d gotten a fair amount of the work done, though. Mark had started a fire in the fireplace, tossing a couple of logs on the flames. The sun had long since gone down, leaving nothing but black emptiness outside the expanse of windows.

“You got anything to eat in that fridge or is it just beer and cornflakes?” Josh clasped his hands over his head and rolled his sore shoulders as he walked into the cluttered kitchen.

“There’s plenty in the freezer.” Mark turned around after he finished playing with the fire.

Josh pulled open the freezer, making a face at the variety of frozen dinner choices that included meatloaf, pot pies and fried chicken. He fished the meatloaf out, reading the back of the box. “I don’t suppose you can get pizza delivered out here?”

“Cute pants there, cupcake. I bet you got boxers to match.”

Josh looked down at his comfortable sweatpants, hooking a thumb in the waistband. “Want to see?”

“Get real, jarhead.” Mark turned his back on him and sat in an overstuffed chair facing the fire.

“I heard boonie rats like you always went commando out in the jungle.” Josh flashed him a grin. “Bet you still do.” He ripped open the box, then pulled the dinner out. First chance he got, he was driving into town to get some real fucking food.

“Like you’ll ever find out, cupcake.”

Josh smiled, tossing the frozen dinner in the microwave. He keyed in the cooking time. Outside the wind picked up, throwing rain against the windows. Josh opened a few cupboards until he found a stack of plates, taking one out. He followed that with a beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off as he waited.

“So, we gonna hook up that fifty-five-inch bad boy there or is it gonna languish in the box?”

“It’s fine right where it is.”

“We get it hooked up, we could be watching football on Monday night.” Josh pulled his dinner out the microwave. “You know, all those manly men in tight pants. Some of them even play in the mud.”

“It’s nice to know you’re so into the game.”

“You betcha. You can’t tell me you don’t like football, dogface.”

The fire took the damp chill out of the air. Josh put the plate under his dinner and with his beer in the other hand joined Mark in front of the fire, sitting on the large sofa. The heat was soothing, as Josh tucked one leg up under him.

“It won’t be a big deal to mount that thing and hook it up.”

“There are TVs in almost every fuckin’ room in this house, including your bedroom. What’s wrong with those?”

“Hello? Fifty-five inches! High def! You’ll be able to count the stitches in the seams of their pants, that’s how fucking awesome that bad boy is.”

“Outstanding.”

Josh rolled his eyes, then forked up some meatloaf. “Christ, I’m going into town in the next few days and getting some real food. These things will kill ya’.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re not one of those granola eatin’ health nuts, are ya’?” Mark pointed at him with his cigarette between two fingers. “It’s bad enough you’re a gay ex-jarhead but if you’re one of those, I’m kicking your flowered underwear ass outta here.”

“Former jarhead, you idiot dogface. And no, I’m not a health food nut.” Josh gave up on the dinner, setting it on the box beside him. He reached for his beer instead, deciding he’d make a sandwich later. “I am, however, a steak and potatoes guy, among other things. The occasional fresh vegetable never hurt anyone either.”

“Whatever. But you get it, you cook it.”

“Like I’d let you grill a nice steak? Yeah, right.” Josh leaned back against the sofa, letting the heat soak in.

"I never said I couldn't cook, jarhead."

"I can tell with that vast variety of frozen dinners in there."

"Give me a fucking break here, will ya?"

Josh flashed him a quick smile. "Now what fun would that be?"

Silence wrapped around them with only the muted rush of the wind and the sound of the rain ticking against the windows. Under that, there was the roar of the crashing surf. Mark got up, stirred the fire, then tossed another log on.

“You never did answer me. Is it commando or boxers?”

“You need a life, jarhead.”

“Oh, I’m working on that, believe me.”

* * * *

With the TV on low for company, Josh sprawled into the comfortable chair in his bedroom. On nice days, he had no doubt it was perfect for looking out over the ocean from the French doors that opened onto the deck. Now he’d shut the drapes so he could watch television.

He pulled his laptop across the bed, setting it on his lap, then powered it up. The local news out of Norfolk was on, showing the weather as Josh watched it in the darkened room where only the TV and his laptop cast any light.

He'd gotten a kick out of pushing Mark's buttons and seeing the guy's reaction. Josh liked being a free spirit, being outrageous. Going for his morning coffee wearing only his dog tags seemed only natural.

But Josh never meant to cause Mark's flashback to a war some forty years ago.

He’d already assumed that Mark had been in Vietnam. It was simple math and intuition that came to anyone who’d been in the military, no matter the branch. Josh suspected that Mark was a kid when he went over, but then most of them were. So many didn’t come back. He brought up Google along with a couple other search engines and started digging.

Mark had scared the hell out of him earlier that day. Josh was sure it was a flashback. He had his own demons that came back at him at the worst of times, so he could sympathize with the other man. It was clear Mark wouldn’t discuss it, even with someone who could understand on some level, although he hadn’t been in ’Nam.

He studied what the search engines brought up, muttering under his breath. Mark Connor was a popular name; he would have to narrow it down some. That was okay. Josh was patient. He also loved a good hunt. He was an internet junkie anyway, so this was a challenge he enjoyed. He put key words in all the search engines, paging through the results.

Josh glanced up at the TV when the news showed a nasty accident up in Virginia Beach, an overturned tractor-trailer with a couple of cars tangled in a mess on Interstate 264.

He sorted his new searches, tossing out what he knew was useless. It was still a lot of shit to sift through. Bookmarking a few possibilities, he changed the search again, studying what came up.

It took him the better part of an hour, the local news having long since signed off to be replaced by the late show. Josh barely noticed as he closed in on what he wanted. You could find pretty much anything on the internet, if you knew how and where to look. In this case, it was his expertise along with some pure dumb luck when he stumbled across an eyewitness account from a soldier whose platoon had gotten pinned down.

Josh scanned through the account of how the unit had been caught in an ambush, unable to do more than try to defend itself until help arrived. They were being picked off, their situation beyond desperate as the North Vietnamese Army kept coming at them. Mark’s buddies had dug in but they were running out of ammunition, time and hope. It was hours before help reached them.

When it did, only a handful of men were alive.

Josh scrolled down the names and clicked on Mark’s. The history given showed that this was Mark’s second tour. He’d been wounded, shot both in the shoulder and the leg but continued to fight. As one of the survivors, he’d been considered a hero, credited with saving the other men’s lives. He was awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. Clicking on some links, Josh found two other accounts of the same fight, all much the same as the first. All three credited Specialist Mark Connor with saving lives. With a bit more digging, Josh found that Mark had already received two Bronze Stars, one during each tour, as well as several other commendations.

Sweet Christ, the man was a genuine hero.

Josh sat back in his chair, considering what he’d learned. Six men, including Mark, had survived the ambush. Six out of nearly forty. Most of Mark’s buddies had died in the jungle that day. Josh closed the lid on his laptop, then pushed it onto the bed. He knew first hand what that kind of trauma was like, how surviving a hopeless battle when your friends didn’t could tear you into tiny pieces. The guilt alone was crushing. He remembered his own nightmares from October 1983. He’d survived the bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut. Most of his friends hadn’t.

Josh had been in the Marines for five years back then, had made the rank of sergeant. Unlike Mark who’d been barely twenty-years-old, Josh wasn’t a kid, but responsible for a lot of men who were. It had been such a hellish mess. It still haunted him. When he finished his obligation with the Marines, he decided not to re-up. He’d had enough of senseless death to last a lifetime.

The light in the room flickered and danced with the images changing on the TV.

Surviving while your buddies died left a mark, a gaping wound. The experience changed a man in more ways than could be easily recognized. What you did with that was up to you. Josh had made the decision that, given a second chance at life, he would celebrate it for his friends who hadn’t. To Josh’s way of thinking, it was a more fitting tribute than dying with them.

Mark was a different story. It was apparent to Josh that he had died that day with his buddies back in the jungle. Mark may have survived the war, but not the ambush.